I went to the feed store yesterday. I love going to the feed store. To appreciate just how strange that sounds, you need to know that I'm a suburban girl. I grew up in a quiet neighborhood, outside a not-very-big city. I didn't like to get dirty or, horrors, sweaty! Now I live in the country, with chickens and a garden (that needs weeding.)
So, now I have to go to the feed store on a regular basis. Chickens eat a lot. I think I like going to the feed store because it feels like stepping back in time. The owner is always there, usually talking to customers about what kind of seed would be best for their garden or which feed is best for their goats. In my case, it's whether I need the layer crumbles or the pellets. He remembers better than I do.
The feed store is a place where my grandfather would feel right at home. There's usually a cat napping on a stack of feed. Occasionally, there's a box of puppies or kittens looking for homes. There are pails on the floor filled with seeds that you can buy by the pound and several boxes of dog treats, also available by the pound. When my son went in with me one day, he came out with a treat to take home to our dog, no charge.
I've never had to load my own feed, although I did have to help get a square hay bale into a plastic bag so it wouldn't make a mess in my car. That's what I get for not driving the truck. I hope the feed store is around for a long time. The chickens don't care where their food comes from, but I do.
By the way, they eat the pellets.